s or the commercial
theatre, where they became just nonsense. He was being transformed
from her Charles into a monstrous London Charles, a great artist whose
greatness was of more importance than his art.

She first took alarm at this on the occasion of the dinner which the
dear, delightful fellow arranged to have given to himself and then with
childlike innocence accepted as a thing done in his honour--the first
clear sign of the split in his personality which was to have such fatal
consequences, for her and for so many others.

There were three hundred guests. The chair was taken by Professor
Laverock, as a distinguished representative of modern painting, and he
declared Mann to be the equal of Blake in vision, of Forain in
technique, of Shelley in clear idealism. Representatives of the
intellectual theatre of the time were present and spoke, but the
theatre of success was unrepresented. There were critics, literary
men, journalists of both sexes, idealists of both sexes, arrivists,
careerists, everybody who had ever pleaded publicly for the theatre as
a vehicle of art. Professor Laverock declared it to be Mann's mission
to open the theatre to the musician, the poet, and the painter, and, if
he might express his secret hope, to close it to the actor. There were
many speeches, but Clara sat through them all staring straight in front
of her, wondering if a single person in the room really understood what
Charles wanted and what he meant. Whether they did so or not, Charles
did not help them much, for in response to the toast of his health he
rose, beamed boyishly at the company and said, 'I'm so happy to be
back. Thank you very much. The theatre needs love. I give you my
love.'

He sat down so suddenly that Clara gasped, and was frightened for a
second or two by the idea that he had been taken ill. But when she
turned to where he sat, he was chatting gaily to his neighbour and
seemed to be unaware of any omission. She heard a man near her say, 'I
did hope he was going to be indiscreet,' and she felt with acute
disappointment that this was just a dinner, just an entertainment among
many dinners and entertainments, and she was ashamed.

Charles, however, was delighted. 'Such nice people,' he said, as they
walked home, 'such delightful people, and what a good dinner!'

'Get away. I hate you. You're horrible,' cried Clara, flinging from
him.

'_Now_ what's the matter?' he asked, utterly taken aback.